When a delver reads the bones,
They wind from the extremities
Like turning over a stone,
Knapping toward the centerpiece.
The rites hold puzzles in their hunt:
To rearrange the years on their track.
Often the first must go to the back
And the last be brought up front.
The calendar's order is traced
To right shelves in their proper season,
Ostensibly preventing waste.
Donating what's least unfresh is righteous,
Though we know the real reason:
Insurance claims and tax write-offs.
Tag: job
Expiration Dates
I check the first one and I check
The final one; if they're the same
It takes little time to inspect
The others, they're out of the game.
Often we see dates far ahead
Or dates looming, just vaguely near.
Many times it's this very year,
But also there are dates long dead
Which our auguries discover.
Old pharmaka now poisonous,
Lying in wait, danger smothered
Among others where what's transpired
Few notice in a choice amiss.
Prophecies of our goods expired.
Last Sunday
In the evening the great grey sail is drawn;
Now, Tampa, the rains are beginning to pour.
I hear it thump over the HVAC's yawn
And the jammed traffic from Raymond James' door.
I heard the Bucs won and the final score
Was forty-to-something, though who they played
I don't know; usually there's fans galore
For any visitors, but today I made
My way to work with the game underway.
The rain has given way to blackness, laid
Upon our hut of lights and slow decay.
As easy a Sunday as any here,
Albeit the last Sunday of the year.
The dew is layered upon my windshield
The dew is layered upon my windshield.
The city's blood starts to pump through its veins
Faster, awakening before its yield
To deadlock before nine o'clock's slow pains;
But I am up early, I'm spared these banes.
I've smoked before the rising of the Sun,
And an abundance of daylight remains
To be enjoyed after my work is done.
Today can be a day to champion
Perseverance of personal designs,
Gratitude for a day that is still young.
So much light and warmth left to trace the lines
Of trouble and struggle toward ascent,
With luck an answer to why we've been bent.
A place for my poems 